You know, if coffee was any better, I reckon I'd marry it. 9 to 5, or in my case 9 to 5:30, is too much bloody time at work. There are far, far too many things to do in a day to be spending all that time growing like a cancer on a roll-y chair. Before next Thursday, I have to
1. Go to Ottawa for two days
2. Wax - which is more involved than a half-hour appointment, as my disgust with the lack of sugar waxing facilities in Toronto has made me look up a recipe and decide to do it myself - we're talking drugs and tears here
3. Get a haircut
4. Clean my apartment, besides the fridge. My fridge is lovely but everything else is a stinking pile
5. Buy two more bike locks
6. Have lunch with Mummy
7. Make some more weed butter
8. Finish reading about Ghengis Khan, who, as it turns out, is just FANTASTIC - I'd FAR rather make babies with him than Alexander, my old favourite.
9. A soirée with Mr. C
10. Call all the fucking people I haven't been calling because I've been too FUCKING BUSY
Because next Thursday, things get Tantric, and all I'll be good for is making lots of noise. So what I'm saying is, work is for the fucking birds. Being Mistress La Spliffe is a full-time job already. Faaaack. What to do, what to do. I've already tried the rich husband thing - that was even more work than work. Faaaaaaaaack. Now I know why people buy lottery tickets. Anybody need a grifting partner? I'm no Angelica Huston but at least I'm too lazy to murder you and abscond with our ill-gotten booty.
Hee hee hee . . . booty.